Sentiment
by cindylouwho38
Summary: When Sherlock is woken by John's keening in the night, can he be enough to help put the pieces back together?
1. John's tears

Sentiment

_**A/N: I have to say that this is therapy for me. I am having a lot of issues right now, and I decided that maybe if I could write about it in a way that was safe for me, maybe I would feel better. Whether or not that is the case, I do not know yet. I hope I can do the characters justice, however, there may be some OOC Sherlock. This also sounded better in my head as I wrote it while on a walk, then it does on paper. **_

_**This takes place after John has been at Baker Street for approximately 6 months.**_

Sherlock wakes with a start among the flotsam and jetsam of beakers and petri dishes. He had been measuring the coagulation of something important before he inconveniently fell asleep at the kitchen table. It only takes another moment for him to realize why. There is a crying, no a _keening, _coming from upstairs. _John_, he thinks. Nightmare. But as the keening continues on, he realizes, _no not a nightmare_.

He quickly makes his way upstairs. John's door is ajar, and the keening is still continuing. Sherlock debates a second about privacy and then, without hesitation, pushes the door open. He finds John curled up in the foetal position, sobbing and keening. He does not immediately notice Sherlock's presence until he feels a large hand on his shoulder. "John," Sherlock whispers, "are you all right?"

John isn't sure, no, he knows he isn't all right. He knows the instant that Sherlock is asking if he is all right instead of _deducing _the cause of his tears. He can hear the sounds coming out of him now, and he forces himself to stop, to breathe. It isn't working. He manages to upright himself so he is leaning against the wall, breathing heavily, still keening somehow. He shakes his head in the negative and tries to pull himself together. Sherlock doesn't say anything. He just keeps watch over John, never once removing his hand from John's shoulder.

Sherlock finally sits down on the end of the bed; leaning over wasn't doing anyone any favours at this wee hour of the night. He waits until John's breathing becomes less panicked and ragged before he asks what happened. And John tells him.

"_Last February, while I was in Afghanistan, I got an email from Harry saying that mum wasn't well, but not to worry, that it was probably nothing. They had gone to A&E and had given her pain medication and that seemed to sort it. They followed up with her GP who ran some tests and they found that she had cancer. They couldn't even tell where the cancer was for Christ's sake. They just bumbled around like idiots with chemo and other things until one day I got a call, an emergency call from Harry. She was fucking hysterical. In all our lives I've never heard her like that. She begged me to come home; that there wasn't that much time. It hadn't even been a month. I was able to arrange to come back for two weeks. I thought as a doctor I could see something that they had missed. There was nothing to see. The chemo was killing her faster than the cancer. So she stopped it, she just fucking gave up. I tried to change her mind, but she was stubborn. I had those two weeks with her and that was it. I had to ship back out. The morning I left I talked to her, but I got no reply. She never regained consciousness. She died while I was waiting on a plane in Germany, waiting to go back to the war. Harry took care of everything, obviously, while I was patching up IED victims in the middle of the desert. When I got shot and invalided back, I had so many other things to worry about, like healing, so I didn't even take the time to grieve. It's been a year, Sherlock. It's been an entire year and I don't know what to do."_

As John breaks down again, Sherlock watches him. He has no idea what he should do. He knows what people do, but Sherlock isn't people. So he puts his hand back on John's shoulder. And waits.

Finally, John's sobs taper off, and he looks at his watch. "It's half six. I should be getting up."

Sherlock looks at him and shakes his head. "No, I think you should try to rest, John. We haven't a case on. It's fine."

John looks at him as if he has been replaced by an alien but simply nods and climbs back under the covers. Sherlock stands up and walks quietly toward the door. As he goes to shut it, he hears a soft "thank you" from the bed. He nods toward the figure on the bed, and shuts the door.


	2. Lestrade to the rescue

Given the hour, Sherlock didn't feel the need to go back to sleep. Instead he showered quickly and dressed in his usual fashion. Before leaving, he slipped quietly into John's room with a glass of water, two paracetamol, and a brief note. _John, Gone out for a few hours. Not on a case. -SH_

Sherlock figured that he would be back before the younger man awoke; he appeared to be deeply asleep.

Sherlock headed downstairs and grabbed his coat and scarf. A few moments of searching, and he came up with his confiscated cigarettes (_in the skull, really_), and with that, he headed out the door. He wasted no time and hailed a cab quickly, and headed to Scotland Yard.

Given the early hour, Sherlock arrived at the Yard before Lestrade. He paced outside, and chain smoked until the silver haired D.I arrived. Sherlock could almost hear him groan in the distance.

"Sherlock, I don't have time for your nonsense this morning."

"Ah, Lestrade. Walk with me."

"Did you not hear me? I don't have time. I have files piled up to here."

Sherlock peered at Lestrade. "Please," he whispered. "I need your help."

"What? Come again?" Lestrade was practically laughing. "Can I get that on tape?"

Sherlock sighed. "Lestrade, would you stop being so infuriating? It's, it's about John."

At that, Lestrade's attitude changed. "John? Is he ok? Did something happen?"

"Well, no, I mean yes, but . . ." Sherlock's voice trailed off. "Could you just walk with me?"

"Fine. Now tell me what this is all about."

Sherlock pulled the cigarettes from his coat pocket, removed one, and lit it. After a deep inhale, he began in a rush of words.

"_John woke up hysterically crying this morning. Apparently his mother died a year ago while he was in Afghanistan and he didn't get to say goodbye and he was crying and keening and I have no idea what to do. I listened to him. I let him talk and I didn't interrupt and I left him a glass of water before I left._" Sherlock focused on his cigarette and not on Lestrade who was staring at him open mouthed.

Lestrade sighed and ran a hand through his silvery hair. "Ok. I can help you Sherlock, give you some advice, if you promise to listen. But I am not doing this without coffee. Now, give me one of those cigarettes and let's find a Starbucks."

After coffee had been purchased and nearly half of the cigarettes smoked, the two sat on a bench and watched as London woke up around them. After a bit of silence, Lestrade began. "Sherlock, I know this really isn't your area. I'm glad you came to me instead of trying to deal with this on your own. I can only imagine what your idea of being compassionate is. What you have done so far is fine, and is probably more than John expected from you. What I suggest is that you keep the experiments to the bare minimum, don't risk his life for the next two or so weeks running all over London chasing murderers, and just be there for him. If he wants to talk, listen. Make him a cup of tea. If he goes to the cemetery, offer to go with him so he doesn't have to be alone. Be yourself, but with less of the running rude commentary and deductions."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Lestrade, you know I can be perfectly nice when the occasion suits me."

"Well Sherlock, I think this is a time where you need it to be authentic. John will pick up on that a mile away. He doesn't need the aggravation of you on top of dealing with a loss.

Sherlock sighed, but reluctantly nodded. "So tea, listen, don't be an idiot. I think I can handle that Detective Inspector."

Lestrade just shook his head. "Seriously Sherlock, all you can do is just be there for him. Even if you are bored out of your mind. He probably doesn't want to be alone and the last thing he needs is to feel ignored or put out or put upon. Do you understand?"

"I understand in the way I understand that murders are committed in acts of jealousy and rage and love, but I still do not understand what the value is in _feeling _that way, in having these _emotions_." He practically spit the words out.

"You can analyse your feelings or lack thereof later. Right now, concentrate on John. He lost someone he cared deeply about and wasn't able to be there to have any closure. He needs you right now Sherlock, as crazy as that may seem."

Sherlock nodded in response.

"Ok, I've got to go back to the Yard. I'll try to make sure the criminal classes take a few days off, all right? Now, go back home and do your best to take care of John."

They parted, and after a longer than he hoped for cab ride, Sherlock was back at 221B Baker Street. He entered the flat quickly and quietly and turned on the kettle. Tea, was one thing that he could handle. While he preferred when John made the tea (mainly because he didn't have to be bothered), he had lived on his own for a long time and was perfectly capable of making a cup of tea.

The flat was still silent after he finished making the tea. He carried the mugs upstairs and lightly knocked on John's door, hoping he was awake. "Come in Sherlock," John said from the other side of the door.

Sherlock entered carefully, not wanting to spill any of the tea. "I made you some tea," he said quietly. John smiled weakly. "I can see that, thanks. And thank you for the water and paracetamol. That was nice of you." Sherlock just nodded, and looked vaguely embarrassed.

John sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. "I'm sorry about this morning, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at John in puzzlement. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You were upset and it is normal under the circumstances that you described to be upset from what I understand. I only have theoretical data to back this up of course." Sherlock paused, knowing that sounded wrong. He thought back to his conversation with Lestrade. "I only wish there was something I could do to ease your anguish," he said quietly.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?" John asked him, smiling genuinely for the first time that day. At the same time Sherlock's mobile beeped. Sherlock pulled it from his jacket pocket, scowling at the text.


	3. Mycroft's meddling

_Be careful Sherlock, you are entering dangerous territory here. -MH_

Sherlock quickly typed in a response. _Piss off, Mycroft. -SH_

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock's frantic texting. "Mycroft," he asked?

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and nodded in response. "Yes, he is being his usual insufferable self."

John chucked at the absurdity of the two brothers, but then it wasn't like he had a great relationship with Harry right now. This train of thought led him to be reminded of what day it was and the grief just washed over him, like a tsunami.

He put the mug of tea down and put his head in his hands. "Sherlock, I miss her so much."

Sherlock put his tea down on the floor and placed his hand on John's shoulder like he had earlier in the morning. He was thinking about giving John a hug, when his mobile beeped again. "Not now Mycroft," he hissed.

_A car can be at your disposal today if the need should arise. -MH_

A car? What did he need one of Mycroft's cars for? Oh, oh! Yes, John may want to go somewhere, perhaps to see Harry or somewhere he had good memories associated with his mother.

"Umm, John? Mycroft said that we can have use of one of his cars if needed today. Is there anywhere you want to go?"

John lifted his head from his hands. "I don't even want to know how he does things like that, but yes, that would be a good idea. I'd like to go to the cemetery, and it would be easier in a car than on the Tube."

Sherlock nodded and responded to the text, even though it irritated him, his brother could be useful sometimes. _Thank you. -SH_

A response immediately chimed back. _The car will be there at noon. -MH_

The two set about cleaning up tea cups and themselves so that they could be off right away.

Right on time the promised car was waiting outside 221B. Sherlock and John headed outside into the cold and grey day, and for once Sherlock was grateful to not have to stand about waiting for cabs. John had asked to stop at a local florist before they headed off to the cemetery, and that was their first stop.

The drive there was quiet with Sherlock not knowing quite what to say, and John being a combined mixture of sad and anxious. The two men were lost in their own thoughts and worries the remainder of the drive.

John didn't know what to expect upon arriving, as he hadn't been able to being himself to come out to see his mum's final resting place. It was just so final. Harry had told him how to find the grave and had even sent him a picture of the head stone; as tasteless as he thought that had been, it was helpful today.

He instructed the driver according to the directions Harry had given him and after a few minutes of driving through tree lined pathways they were there. John took a deep breath and put his soldier mask on, straightened his shoulders, and opened the door. Sherlock followed John out of the car, but stayed standing next to the car as he knew John needed to do this on his own. John nodded and smiled weakly at Sherlock before he turned and walked, limping slightly, to his mum's final resting place.

Sherlock wished he had had foresight to find where John had most recently hidden his cigarettes or at the very least grabbed some nicotine patches. He was uncharacteristically nervous as he leaned against the car, keeping an eye on John. He chewed on his lower lip. All of this emotion was getting to him. He finally resorted to taking out his mobile and checking to see if there had been any murders he could solve while waiting.

John stood at his mum's grave and placed the bouquet of flowers so that they leaned against the gravestone. He shoved his hands in his coat pocket, wishing he had thought to bring his gloves. He had no idea what to do or say. John sighed audibly and looked up at the cloud covered sky and began to talk. He told her all about his recovery and Sherlock and their cases so far. He told her he was sorry he wasn't there when she died, that he was sorry he wasn't there at the funeral and began to cry in earnest. As if the sky above him understood, the rain that had held off until then began to fall in torrents, and John fell to his knees sobbing.

Sherlock watched John fall apart at the gravestone. He didn't want to intervene, but once the rain began to fall, he changed his mind. It wouldn't help matters for either of them to end up soaking wet and cold, let alone ill. Sherlock strode across the dead grass to where John was sobbing and helped him to his feet. John was crying so hard Sherlock was afraid he was going to hyperventilate. He handed John his handkerchief and led him away from the grave.

Having Sherlock suddenly be present shocked John out of whatever mindset he was in. He allowed himself to be helped up and accepted the handkerchief with a nod. As they walked back to the car John let himself be guided by Sherlock's hand on his back. It was reassuring. As much as Sherlock acted like he had no emotions, he was certainly being sympathetic. By the time they made it back to the car he had his breathing almost under control, apart from the occasional sob and had wiped his eyes and nose as much as he could with the rain water dripping from his hair onto his face.

Once they were back in the warm and dry car, John had calmed down somewhat. There was the occasional tear and sniffle, but he had finally come back to himself. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to keep his emotions under control.

Sherlock studied John. He knew that John was very upset and he was very unsure what he should do. He was about to put an arm around John to console him (as he knew this was what normal people did, offered comfort). Since a considerable amount of his brain power was being directed at figuring out what to do, the normal walls he had up for such things as hunger betrayed him, and he suddenly pitched forward with a half stifled sneeze.

John's eyes flew open, startled. "Bless you," he said. "Are you ok?"

Sherlock sniffled quietly, nodding, his normal wall back up. "I think that is the question I should be asking of you, John. Are you ok?" Before John could reply, Sherlock's mobile beeped indicating a text. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he pulled his mobile out of his pocket.

_Bless you, little brother. Do you require the car for anything else, or should the driver take you back to Baker St? -MH_

_Don't you have a third world country to take over or the CIA to infiltrate or something? -SH_

Sherlock turned his attention back to John. "Is there anywhere else you would like to go?"

John slowly shook his head. "No. We're both soaked as it is. Let's just go back home," he said quietly.

Sherlock nodded and quickly sent another text to Mycroft. _We will be returning to Baker Street now. -SH_

Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket and studied John once again. The occasional tear was still falling, but he was no longer as upset as before. "Is there anything I can do?"

John slowly shook his head again, lips beginning to tremble. "Sherlock, she's gone and I don't know what to do!" John began to sob again, uncontrollably shaking, and launched himself into Sherlock's arms. Sherlock carefully put his arms around John, trying not to act as uncomfortable as he felt, as he knew that would not help John.

As London passed outside the windows of the car, John pressed himself harder into Sherlock's chest, sobbing, and Sherlock rubbed John's back, trying to be comforting.

_**A/N: I'm not really sure where I am going from here, but I can tell you it's probably going to get a bit slashy, so if that isn't your cup of tea, you've been warned. Thank you to all you who've favourited this story. -CLC**_


	4. Feelings

_A/N: This is just a short update. I hope to get more written this weekend if I can find a train of thought and stick to it._

Sherlock had no idea what to do with a sobbing John Watson in his arms. He had no idea how to fix this (he knew he couldn't) and didn't know what the proper protocol was. He ended up patting him on the back, ill at ease with the situation. Sherlock felt awkward, confused, and out of his element. He didn't like having these _feelings _of helplessness. He didn't like contemplating the fact that he may actually have _feelings_ for John.

When they arrived back at Baker Street, they headed to their respective rooms to change into dry clothes. Sherlock found his warmest pyjamas and dressing gown, and even deigned to put on a pair of slippers Mycroft had given him as a gift some years ago.

Drying his hair with a towel, Sherlock headed up to John's room to make sure that he was ok. He was still unsure as to what he was doing, but John wasn't complaining, so he figured his presence was enough as John surely knew that he was awkward in offering said comfort.

Sherlock found John sitting in his room, staring at nothing, not moving still in his wet clothes. He was shivering, but didn't seem to notice.

"John?"

John looked up at Sherlock, confused.

"John, you need to get out of those wet clothes, you are shivering. You will catch cold if you are not careful."

John sighed and stood up reluctantly. Not even caring that Sherlock was standing there, John stripped down to his pants and pulled on some well worn sweats and a long sleeved tshirt. He was freezing and all he wanted was a cup of tea and to climb into bed. He decided to forego the tea, and sank down on to the bed.

Sherlock stood watching John, awkwardly. He tried not to look while his flatmate was changing, but it was hard, and was bringing back some of the uncomfortable _feelings_ he had in the cab.

"John, I . . ."

"Sherlock, I'm ok, really. Just freezing now, mostly." John let out a faint chuckle as he pulled the duvet up.

Sherlock nodded and turned to leave. "I will let you rest."

"Sherlock? Would you stay? I don't really want to be alone right now."

Sherlock hesitated, but nodded and crossed back over to the bed where John was. John budged over, and Sherlock sank down on the bed next to him. John turned over on his side, once Sherlock was settled and dozed off almost immediately to the sounds of Sherlock's even, steady breathing.

Sherlock watched John sleep. His features were smoothed out in slumber, and he looked far younger than his years. Once he was sure John wouldn't awake, Sherlock carded his fingers through John's short blonde hair, and smiled when John seemed to relax into the touch. Perhaps there was something to these feelings after all.


	5. Illness and unfinished conversations

When John awoke a few hours later he was hot and his throat was on fire. Great, he was sick, he thought to himself. Just what he needed. He turned to get up and found that he was trapped by long arms and legs. Sherlock. Even better.

"Sherlock," John rasped, throat aching. "Sherlock, wake up. I can't bloody move."

Sherlock groaned. He was warm and comfortable, and for once in a deep sleep that he had a hard time rousing from. Granted, he hadn't slept in at least two days.

"What's wrong," Sherlock managed to mumble out, his voice heavy with sleep.

"I need to get up, and I can't with you wrapped around me like a human octopus." Any other time John would have been alarmed at the situation, but his sleep, illness, and grief addled mind had enough to process.

"Why do you need to get up?"

"Sherlock!" John managed to croak that out, barely.

Sherlock sat up, untangling himself from John. He studied him in the faint light. "You're ill. Slight fever, sore throat, congestion." He was full on deduction mode, even after being awake for a few moments. "What do you need?"

John sneezed in reply. "Tissues, apparently and some paracetamol and water."

"Dio ti benedica, mio caro, il mio John," Sherlock said quietly. "I will be right back." He got up and headed out of the room.

John just stared. "Thanks," he croaked out.

Sherlock was back quickly with what John had asked for. John gratefully blew his nose and downed the pills and water. "Thanks Sherlock. I understand if you want to go, I'm sure you don't want to get sick."

Sherlock scoffed at that. "I am sure I will be fine, and this way I can be here if you need anything."

John sniffled. "Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

He actually got a laugh out of Sherlock at that. "John, you've had a rough few days and having me as a flat mate isn't easy at the best of times. I am trying to do right by you."

John just stared at Sherlock. "Sherlock, seriously, are you on something? Are you having me on?"

Sherlock studied the floor and shook his head. "No, I am not on either count. I am trying to be a good friend," he said quietly. "I even went to Lestrade and got advice, am I not doing this right?"

John was speechless. "Seriously?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Thank you Sherlock, that's the nicest thing anyone has done for me in some time. You are doing fine."

Sherlock smiled the genuine smile that was reserved for John. "I know I am not good with emotions and feelings and caring, but you are my only friend and I wish to try to . . . " Sherlock was cut off by John's sneezing.

_Ha-ish, ha-ish!_

"Dio ti benedica,mio caro, il mioJohn," Sherlock said and handed John the tissues.

"Ok, back to sleep for you. We can talk when you are feeling better."

John sniffled and yawned as he settled back under the duvet. He was very tired again, and half wondered if Sherlock had spiked his water. That thought was lost as he fell into slumber again, listening to Sherlock murmuring to him in Italian.

Sherlock didn't fall back to sleep for the remainder of the night. Instead he studied John, monitored, and his temperature and breathing and thought about what he was going to do or say when John asked him about their unfinished conversation.


End file.
